


Acute Error

by Ezlebe



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Genderfluid Oikawa Tooru, Jealousy, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She’s a classmate,” Hajime says, glancing down at his work and realizing it’s probably a lost cause for now, with Oikawa in a mood. He closes the lid on his laptop and watches with some resignation as the logo dims for the night.</p><p>“She’s adorable, though,” Oikawa says, tipping his head sideways to give him a suggestive look, complete with a raising eyebrow. “And she’s always all over you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acute Error

“Iwaizumi-kun, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Ushinawa says from the bathroom, her voice clear even through the door. “Aw, I’m so jealous, this concealer costs ¥4000 even at the bargain sites.”

Hajime frowns, positive that he’s heard wrong as he lifts his head up and glances in the direction of the door. He narrows his eyes when he hears more digging, wincing at a sudden, tell-tale collapse of small containers.

Ushinawa's yelp is badly muffled by the door, followed by more noise of plastic and glass. Finally, almost ten minutes later, she emerges again, brandishing an embarrassed smile as she returns to her place across the kotatsu.

“I’m sure whatever happened in there won’t be noticed,” Hajime says quietly, glancing upward with a wry look and catching her eyes. It’s a complete lie, but he’ll go in there and make sure it’s in order before Oikawa gets back.

Ushinawa tips her head, self-conscious expression melting into a soft, imploring look. “You’ll have to introduce us sometime. I want tips from someone who uses such nice products.”

Hajime blinks, mouth held open for a long moment as he tries to understand.

“Your girlfriend,” Ushinawa repeats, smiling brightly as she looks down to her laptop. “You’re very lucky to have someone with such good taste. She must be beautiful.”

* * *

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, poking his head out of the bathroom with an exaggerated pout, toothbrush hanging precariously from his teeth. He says something else, but the words are pitchy and muddled, so all Hajime understands is that he’s mad about clutter or something, as if he has any room to talk.

“I can’t understand you,” Hajime says, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Talk to me after your done, like a damned adult.”

Oikawa scowls deeply, looking just a little rabid with the toothpaste foaming around his mouth, and slams the door shut with a loud crack.

Hajime exhales and shakes his head, returning to the sheets that still litter the surface of the kotatsu. He’s through inputting about half of them, double checking his work every twenty entries, and nearly jumps out of his skin when Oikawa slumps into his side with an irritated mumble.

“What?”

“You messed with my things,” Oikawa says, frowning deeply as he leans against the kotatsu with one elbow, his chin in palm. “Rude.”

Hajime very nearly winces, but outwardly only exhales heavily, acting exasperated. “It wasn’t me, and she didn’t mean to. You need to keep your stuff up better.”

Oikawa is oddly quiet despite an implication he’d usually dismiss obnoxiously, and when Hajime looks over, he’s frowning down at some stain on the blanket with a closed-off expression. It’s a familiar look these days, since Hajime started graduate school, and he's still not quite sure what it means, which irks him to no end. He’s supposed to know all of Oikawa’s shitty moods; what use is knowing someone for almost twenty years if he can’t figure out something so simple?

“She also told me you spent ¥2500 each on three different shades of lip stick,” Hajime says, attempting to fill the empty space in his chest with more common annoyance. “ _We_ pay for this place, Oikawa, not me.”

Oikawa’s shoulders finally seem to relax, and he looks up with an exaggerated pout. “But how will my lips stay pretty?”

“They don’t need to be any prettier,” Hajime sputters, glancing away when he realizes he’s been staring at them. He doesn’t think he ever really noticed anything, but now he’s sure he will, which is just _great_.

“I can’t believe you let your girlfriend go through my cosmetics, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, leaning further across the kotatsu and pillowing his chin into his crossed arms. He taps his fingers against the wood. “Now I’m going to have to inventory.”

Hajime glances downward, eyes narrowing as he feels a substantial wave of déjà vu flow over him. Unfortunately, unlike actual déjà vu, he remembers in brutal detail listening to his cute lab partner gush over Oikawa’s feminine superiority less than four hours ago, and he still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around it.

He knows he should have interrupted her, said that no, Oikawa isn’t his girlfriend, or even a girl. He’s certain of that, at least, had clumsily asked when the make-up started crowding the counter in the bathroom, and ended up on the receiving end of a frown and an affronted: _‘Some boys want to look cute, too, Iwa-chan. Even if you don’t.’_

(He still hasn’t said anything about the panties that were in the laundry, mostly for his own benefit. Honestly, he can’t be sure if those were even Oikawa’s at all.)

“She’s a classmate,” Hajime says, glancing down at his work and realizing it’s probably a lost cause for now, with Oikawa in a mood. He closes the lid on his laptop and watches with some resignation as the logo dims for the night.

“She’s adorable, though,” Oikawa says, tipping his head sideways to give him a suggestive look, complete with a raising eyebrow. “And she’s always all over you.”

“She just – “ Hajime pauses, rewinding his train of thought. “You’ve never even met her - how would you know?”

“Chibi-chan sends me a pictures,” Oikawa says, raising his nose haughtily. “Said you two always look cozy in the café.”

“You’re using baristas to spy on me?” Hajime asks in disbelief, leaning back against the foot of the couch and gaping down at Oikawa. “ _Karasuno_ baristas?”

“I didn’t ask,” Oikawa insists, voice pitching in that familiar two-faced tone. “He sent it himself.”

Hajime scoffs lightly, fingers tightening against the blanket over his knees. “Bullshit, Kusokawa, how did he even get your number?”

“I don’t know,” Oikawa mumbles, glowering now and hunching his shoulders inward as he shoves his face into his elbow again. “I just don’t know why you wouldn’t tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Hajime says, voice raising as he feels irritation start to swarm around and into his thoughts. “She’s my lab partner, that’s it.”

“Whatever,” Oikawa mutters, voice soft and ever-so-slightly offended. “Iwa-chan is a jerk.”

“You know what? She saw all your… Stuff in the bathroom, and thinks you’re my live-in girlfriend, alright?” Hajime snaps, glancing away from Oikawa’s huddled figure and out toward the window, watching the lights in the next building flash on and off. He bites his lower lip, grinding it between his teeth. “I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t sure how to explain it, so I guess I am a jerk in that way, but not because I was keeping secrets from you.”

Oikawa makes a quiet, curious noise, and Hajime glances over in time to watch him peek over his arms with a furrowed brow.

“And you spend way too much on that shit,” Hajime finishes weakly, reaching over and hesitantly scrubbing a hand through Oikawa’s hair, then wrapping his fingers around the soft skin at the back of his neck. “Can’t you use stuff from Daiso?”

The corner of Oikawa’s frown is visible just over his arm, but this time it’s colored with something less serious. “So mean, Iwa-chan.”

* * *

Hajime was right, he totally sees the lipstick now. It’s fairly noticeable really, slightly glossy and making Oikawa's lips look that much pinker. He watches him carefully bite into a single piece of toast, mouth perking just slightly with every chew, and wonders what the hell has gotten into him.

He had thought he got rid of this whole… _thing_ years ago, buried it until it was gone, and now it just decides to come back? He’s not supposed to creep on Oikawa like one of the fan girls; he’s supposed to be Oikawa’s friend, and his supposed pillar or whatever, even if he’s no longer his ace.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, tipping his head with a frown that makes his lower lip pop out just slightly. “Did you get enough sleep?”

Hajime glances up and makes eye-contact, blinking twice as he raises his eyebrows. “What?”     

“You’re all spacy,” Oikawa says, wriggling his fingers outward.

“No, I’m not,” Hajime says, standing up and reaching over the couch to grab his bag from where it's spilled out onto a cushion. “Anyway, I’m going to class.”

“Wait a sec,“ Oikawa says, bouncing off his chair and stepping around the table. He grabs Hajime’s sleeve, holding him there in the middle of the kitchen.

“Oika – Ack,” Hajime yelps as his cheek gets a loud, slightly sticky smack in the area just above his mouth. He stands there frozen, hastily retracing the last hour or so of the morning to confirm that he’s awake; going all the way back to waking up with a start at the sound of some pop song that Oikawa had decided was going to be his alarm this week.

Oikawa clicks his tongue, head tipping to the side in observation. He reaches up slowly with his free hand and scratches at something with his nail against Hajime’s cheek, humming lowly.

Hajime stares at Oikawa’s wrist, brow twitching in annoyance and his cheek feeling like it’s burning.

“Perfect,” Oikawa says brightly, bringing up his phone and leaning back in to press his cheek to Hajime’s. He clicks a picture that Hajime doesn’t catch, then steps away with an odd expression, fingers tapping against the screen. He waves Hajime off, pointing to the door, “Class, Iwa-chan. I’ll see you tonight.”

Hajime glances at the microwave, grimacing at the time, and is forced to rationalize that maybe leaving Oikawa to get ready for practice now might be the better option. He can always yell at him later.

By the time Hajime gets to class, he’s had time to resolve the fact that he was in fact kissed goodbye by Oikawa, justified that it was probably some weird dare thing, and even manages to slip in the lecture hall door a few spare minutes early. He pulls his laptop out of his bag and clicks on the book app, gearing himself up to memorize the fine details of fractured metatarsals, when he feels a prickling awareness on the side of his neck.

He glances sideways at Ushinawa, furrowing his brow.

“You should tell her she has nothing to worry about,” Ushinawa says, her smile going wide and self-effacing as she starts up the same conversation as two days ago without so much as a hello. “You’re cute, but not that cute. Especially if she’s this possessive.”

Hajime scoffs, shaking his head, and wonders how awkward it would be to explain that he’d technically sort of lied about the girlfriend thing. Granted, he hadn’t said a word, but letting it go unspoken is almost as bad. He clears his throat, ready to come clean, only to wince when he gets a text in the same instant, the vibration against his leg startling him.

It’s Bokuto, and he’s apparently having suffered some loss to his already dwindling marbles. _‘Ohoo my god. Iwa-chan is whiiipped.’_

Hajime frowns, closing his eyes for a long moment before unlocking his phone and typing out a curt, _‘What?_ ’

 _‘Oikawa is looking extremely smug this morning, ;)’_ Bokuto reports _, ‘The newbies are distracted by his smile~~’_

 _‘You two are the newest players,’_ Hajime types, realizing a moment later that he shouldn’t be rolling his eyes at a phone. 

‘ _You caught me, I can’t concentrate_ (/∇＼*),’  Bokuto sends, and then barely a moment later, _‘You know how I get about pretty setters.’_

“Are you okay, Iwaizumi-kun?” Ushinawa asks, interrupting his thoughts with a small laugh. “You’re scowling.”

“A friend is just being an idiot,” Hajime says, shoving the phone in his pocket. He refuses to deal with Bokuto before nine in the morning.

“Well, now that I’ve been properly warned away,” Ushinawa says, digging in her bag with one hand and bringing out a pack of tissues. “You can probably wipe it off, before it embarrasses you too badly.”

Hajime slowly takes the tissue, not quite sure what she’s talking about, “What?”

“Ah,” Ushinawa intones, then reaches forward, barely touching his skin where Oikawa kissed him earlier. “The lipstick on your cheek?”

“W-wait, what –” Hajime mutters, going speechless as he realizes what she’s been talking about and scrubbing at his cheek. The tissue comes back slightly torn and tinted a dull pink, and he’s starting to understand the stares on the train and in the street. Goddamn Oikawa, anyway.

Ushinawa laughs again, a dimple appearing on her right cheek. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Hajime mutters, folding the tissue in half and then scrubbing again. The lipstick has mostly dried on, which means it’ll probably be there until he can get to some soap. “I can’t believe – I didn’t even think.”

“I think it’s cute,” Ushinawa says, her smile going soft. She winks just as she turns toward the front of the classroom, where the teacher’s appeared. “She still gets jealous even though you live together.”

“Right,” Hajime mutters, slumping into his seat and balling up the tissue in his hand. “Cute.”

* * *

The café is as bustling as ever after Hajime finishes classes, which isn’t very, so he feels completely comfortable walking up to the empty counter and staring down the tiny ball of sunshine behind the register.

Hinata smiles back, expression bright and unsuspecting. “Iwaizumi-san! Do you want your latte with caramel today?”

Hajime narrows his eyes, crossing his arms and frowning, and only feels a little bad when Hinata wilts under his stare.

“He told me to,” Hinata breaks after less than thirty seconds, his fists defensively curling up tight at the middle of his chest. “The Grand King is very convincing.”

“Please tell me you don’t still call him that to his face,” Kageyama says from behind Hajime, his voice a dull sort of annoyance. Hajime barely manages not to flinch; he hadn’t even seen Kageyama walk in, though he might have already been here.

“I don’t,” Hinata says, but the halfhearted way he scoffs and looks to the side betrays him.

“Told you to do what, exactly,” Hajime asks, relaxing his shoulders when he catches Kageyama glaring at him. He has that severe, dead-eyed look, and Hajime doesn’t feel like re-igniting the old grudge any time soon, especially since he’s probably going to end up working with these two on assignment with the university team.

“He just wanted to know if you ever came in here with your girlfriends,” Hinata says, tapping his fingers together and looking to the side with an evasive expression. His eyes turn back an instant later, surprising Hajime as they narrow fiercely. “I felt bad for him, so I kept him updated.”

“Hinata,” Kageyama mutters, tone pointed and clearly trying to stall something.

“I just told him what he wanted to know,” Hinata says, defiantly lifting his chin in a way not unlike his on-court attitude. “About your _girlfriends_.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, I have friends that happen to be girls,” Hajime disagrees sharply, glaring back at Hinata and then sliding his gaze sideways to catch Kageyama’s eyes. “What happened to telling me when Oikawa was being obnoxious, kouhai?”

“I didn’t know they’d been texting,” Kageyama mutters, looking away for a moment with a weak shrug. He lowers his voice, leaning in, “Hinata is almost as bad, minus the terrible personality.”

Hajime takes a deep breath and then exhales slowly, staring at the back wall behind Hinata for a long few moments. He clicks his tongue, uncrossing his arms and looking back down to make eye contact with Hinata. “Alright, as long as it doesn’t happen again, I’ll keep...” Shit, this is the closest coffee place to the medical center. “…Giving you tips.”

“Okay, Iwaizumi-san,” Hinata mumbles, shuffling on his feet. The sentiment is echoed by Kageyama, who slowly heads back to what seems to be his table in the corner closest to the espresso machine.

“And yeah, I want caramel,” Hajime says, reaching into his jeans for his wallet. “Plus a soy green tea latte.”

Hinata goes still, glancing up with curious look.

Hajime narrows his eyes, “Did I stutter?”

“No,” Hinata says, but his mouth goes wide in a terrible grin. “The Grand King –“

“You’re nineteen, stop calling him that,” Hajime interrupts, looking down at his wallet and pulling out the notes.

“Maybe-he-won’t-be-sad-anymore,” Hinata says in a rush, raising his eyebrows rebelliously as he fills a frother pitcher with milk.

* * *

Almost an hour of train ride later, Oikawa greets him with a sweaty hug and an elated grin, rubbing his gross cheek all over Hajime’s clean shoulder.

“Oi, Iwaizumi,” Bokuto calls, hobbling passed with an expectant look and arms full of equipment. “Did I get a one?”

“No,” Hajime says, raising a single dismissive brow before shoving Oikawa away with his elbow. He ignores the pouting face and gestures forward with his chin. “Go clean up.”

“But it’ll get cold,” Oikawa whines, reaching forward as Hajime takes a pointed step back.

“It’s already cold,” Hajime says, shaking his head. “You can have it after you get done.”

“Rude,” Oikawa mutters, but actually does as asked, practically stomping like a child as he goes over to start folding the net with a visibly frustrated Bokuto.

Hajime sits down against the bleachers, pulling out some notes he needs to type up before the next study session, and almost drops his pen when a large shadow curls over him. He looks up and sees that it’s the team’s current captain, Junichi Kaoru, an impressive middle blocker seven years his senior, and begins to think that surprising Oikawa after practice was a bad idea.

“Iwaizumi Hajime,” Junichi says, crossing his arms and tilting his head. “I have heard a lot about you.”

“Ah,” Hajime says, outwardly only raising an eyebrow as he wonders if he’s about to be told off.

“Oikawa is going to be our best setter,” Junichi says, eyes narrowing with an unreadable emotion. “He has impressive skill.”

“I know,” Hajime says, barely taking a moment to wonder if saying so is presumptuous. He doesn’t actually care; it’s true.

“He also often stays far too late for practice, even for a new member,” Junichi says, exhaling heavily and looking away. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, then pins Hajime with an intense look, “Please do not let that effect your relationship. He cares very much for you.”

Hajime stares, letting his mouth fall open.

“I realize I am being bold, for someone you’ve never met,” Junichi says, leaning forward with that intense, eye-boring expression. “I have heard that you played with him in high school, but this is a lot –“

“And middle school,” Hajime interrupts, fingers tightening against the papers in his hand. A rather sizable part of his mind rears up at the implication that someone thinks they might know Oikawa better than him. “And grade school.”

Junichi stares, blinking a couple of times, “Oh.”

“Yes,” Hajime says, feeling his jaw tense.

“That’s impressive,” Junichi says, his earlier conviction replaced with something that’s easily recognized as embarrassment. “Very uh, romantic?”

Hajime frowns, not comprehending for a few long moments.  If the captain is here, does the entire team think he’s in some sort of amorous relationship with Oikawa? Is he currently making it all the more substantiated just by sitting here?

He glances at the rest of the senior players, standing off to the side and badly hiding their eavesdropping. He thinks about the texts from Bokuto, and the unreadable moods Oikawa has been in for the last two months; remembers the pointed display this morning. He has a sinking feeling that Oikawa’s been doing something both devious and stupid without telling him.

Hajime swallows, offering up a forced smile to Junichi. “If you say so.”

“Right,” Junichi agrees, looking nervous and backing away. “He said you were a doctor, too. That’s very helpful.”

“Going to be,” Hajime corrects, lifting up his notes with a tense nod. “I won’t graduate for a couple of years.”

Laughter starts up from the other players, and Hajime watches as Junichi loses what was left of his intimidating presence when he turns around to yell at them. “Shut up! I’m trying to be a good captain.”

One of them offers a thumbs up, a sharp grin on their face, “Doing great, Kaoru-kun!”

“Um, anyway,” Junichi mutters, turning back to Hajime and chewing on his lower lip. He nods again, voice going low, “It was very nice to meet you Iwaizumi-san, thank you for visiting today.”

“And you, Junichi-san,” Hajime says, wondering if he should stand and bow, but Junichi practically flees before he can even move, apparently retreating to the group of still-giggling players. Hajime looks back down to his notes, not quite sure if the last few minutes were just a stress-induced hallucination or actually happened.

Bokuto practically skips out of the locker room about fifteen minutes later, his usually buoyant hair flat against his head and dripping. He stops right in front of Hajime’s feet, tilting his head back and forth in some sort of weird display.

“What?” Hajime snaps, making eye contact with a sharp glare. “I’m surprised you didn’t take this time to be _distracted_.”

“I was just joking, Iwaizumi-kun,” Bokuto says, squatting down and making to poke at Hajime’s forehead. “He’s the only one left, you can probably go in without it being weird now.”

“Not judging by the way your captain just spoke to me,” Hajime says, raising an eyebrow in disagreement and dodging Bokuto’s fingers.

Bokuto rolls his eyes with a sigh, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, you know.”

“I really don’t,” Hajime says, smiling tightly and enjoying the way it makes Bokuto wince.

Bokuto frowns at him, tipping back and forth on the balls of his feet, “I know that there’s technically nothing going on, but only cause Hinata told Kenma, who told Kuroo, who told me that you got some girlfriend a couple months ago. Like a real one.”

Hajime exhales with a heavy scowl, lifting his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“But the team thinks you’re his doting wife, especially with the lunches and the texts and all the stories he likes to tell. Except, he wears the cute things, I guess. So then he’s like –“

“Please. Just stop,” Hajime interrupts, holding up a hand and getting to his feet. He ignores the way Bokuto takes a step back and stretches his shoulders for a short moment. “I don’t have a girlfriend, just a lab partner who thinks _Oikawa_ is my girlfriend.”

Bokuto’s eyes widen almost impossibly huge and he makes a weird pitchy noise, one that makes Hajime want to punch him. He refrains, only leaning forward to slap at Bokuto’s hand when it goes for a phone, no doubt to reroute the tracks on the gossip train.

“I’m going to go get him,” Hajime says, bending down and shoving his papers into his bag, then picking it up. “Please stop talking about me with people I barely know, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto laughs, winking something suggestively, “Not a chance.”

“My goal is to be the doctor for this team,” Hajime says, trying another tactic and enjoying the way it inspires a pout on Bokuto. “Try not to piss me off before I’m in charge of your health.”

“You can be so scary,” Bokuto mutters, rolling his eyes as he turns around and saunters toward the exit. Regardless of warnings, he definitely still pulls out his phone just as the gym door closes behind him, barely even trying to hide it.

Hajime glares, but leaves it, aware enough that he has never had control of the people in the volleyball community. He half expects to be included the inevitable group text.

He grabs the cold latte off the bleachers and heads toward the hallway at the back of the gym, raising an eyebrow slightly at the warning sign before stepping toward the locker room. He grimaces at the smell, no longer acclimated to the way sweat seems to ferment in the very walls. He glances at the showers and the shuttered lockers, admitting to himself that at least this one is much nicer than any of the others he ever changed in himself.

Oikawa stands in the far corner, half dressed to the waist and leaning in near a mirror, tracing at his eyes. He turns toward the entrance with a smirk on his face, clearly already expecting Hajime.

“Green tea?” Oikawa asks hopefully, carefully capping the pencil and throwing it in a bag.

“Yeah,” Hajime mutters, setting it down on a bench and then sitting down next to it, watching Oikawa. “Hinata called you sad.”

Oikawa’s eyes catch his in the mirror, narrowing sharply, “Oh?”

Hajime shrugs, his earlier mood having apparently abandoned him. He got over this years ago, anyway. He doesn’t care. Oikawa’s probably has some overcomplicated girl drama he’s trying to get off his back, and is using other people to get out from under it, as usual.

Oikawa picks up the drink, a pleased smile on his face. “Iwa-chan is so nice.”

“I don’t know how you can drink it cold,” Hajime mutters, trying not to grimace as Oikawa takes a long gulp.

“It’s good at any temperature,” Oikawa insists, nudging at Hajime’s shoulder with his hip.

Hajime catches his eye for a short moment before looking back down like a coward. “Why did you do that this morning?”

Ah shit, he didn’t mean to say that; he was going to say something stupid about sour milk.

Oikawa is silent for a few seconds, and when Hajime looks up curiously, he’s clearly trying to play off his carefulness as merely a convenient time to drink.

“I have to play the part, after all,” Oikawa says slowly, his thumbnail rapping at the edge of his cup lid for a few quick beats. “Wouldn’t want to tarnish Iwa-chan’s reputation.”

“You’re a volleyball player, not an actor,” Hajime says, rolling his eyes and palming the smooth bench under his hands. “And you’re not tarnishing anything, jeez.”

“Not yet,” Oikawa says, his voice an admirable imitation of light and teasing.

“Not ever,” Hajime snaps, swallowing tightly when he sees the bemused look on Oikawa’s face. “You’re not going to – You couldn’t tarnish anything if you tried, alright? Especially not me.”

“Iwa-chan, I didn’t mean it,” Oikawa mutters, bumping into him again. “I only meant – “

Hajime interrupts him with a sharp look, grabbing Oikawa’s wrist and holding his thumb over the tendons, feeling the pulse there fight against his own. “The only reason I’m not some sad sack working at a convenience store in Miyagi right now is you, so shut up.”

“Stop,” Oikawa whines, leaning further into Hajime and practically draping over him; the bare skin of Oikawa’s chest presses against Hajime’s shoulders and neck. “You’re _so_ embarrassing.”

“Sure,” Hajime agrees sarcastically, shifting his hand so Oikawa’s arm isn’t at an uncomfortable angle. “And you’re apparently both dangerously possessive and sweet, which is something girls think exists.”

“Is Iwa-chan mad,” Oikawa asks, curling his arms around Hajime’s head like some sort of errant child, “Did you like that girl?”

“Not really,” Hajime admits, grimacing as Oikawa’s weight somehow pushes him further into the bench. All he can see is the bicep pressing into his eyes, and it’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it is kind of claustrophobic. “She’s a good study partner. Better than you ever were.”

“I’m great at studying,” Oikawa disagrees, the pout audible in his voice.

“You’re good at memorizing for yourself, Kusokawa,” Hajime says, reaching up and trying to drag Oikawa into a less monkey-like sitting position with a grip around his shoulder. “You couldn’t explain it for shit.”

“I was still good,” Oikawa says, giving in and falling to the bench beside Hajime. He takes another drink of his latte, leaning back against the lockers with his head tipped in Hajime’s direction.

He’s not wearing the lipstick anymore, but it certainly hasn’t deterred Hajime from staring when he pulls his lower lip between his teeth. He holds it there, seemingly thinking about something.

“Oh,” Oikawa says, and then abruptly starts to chug his drink.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick,” Hajime snaps, blinking in surprise and reaching forward to try snatching the cup out of his hands. He doesn’t get it until it’s near empty, though, and has a moment of sympathy nausea when Oikawa stands up with a long exhale. “What the fuck was that?”

“I wanted to finish it,” Oikawa says, as if his words make any sense at all. He reaches passed Hajime and grabs a shirt, pulling it on and smoothing down the front. The pattern is some pseudo-punk design that doesn’t seem very Oikawa’s style, and it’s a little baggy – Wait.

“That’s my shirt,” Hajime says, reaching forward and pulling on the hem. “I barely remember buying this – it had to have been at the bottom of my drawer.”

Oikawa answers with little more than an obnoxious laugh, pushing Hajime away and reaching for his bag again. He pulls out another sort of pencil, and a moment later Hajime realizes he apparently had no idea what lipstick is as Oikawa leans toward the mirror with a concentrated look and perked lips.

Today is the most he’s ever really seen of Oikawa’s process, usually locked up in the bathroom like some sort of secret, and he has to admit that actually watching makes it all that more noticeable, though not necessarily in a bad way. It also reveals the fact that there are actual steps, though he should’ve expected that from an overachiever like Oikawa.

After he’s done daubing powdery stuff, Oikawa smacks his lips and stares at himself for an oddly charged moment, before turning around to look at Hajime with a worryingly fixed smirk. He’s clearly looking for some sort of feedback, but it feels a few years late for Hajime to have an opinion.

“Is that the same stuff you had on this morning?” Hajime asks, awkwardly dodging the unspoken question as he narrows his eyes for a short moment. The color seems a lot less evident now, maybe even duller.

“Nope,” Oikawa says, giving that irritatingly artificial smile and gesturing in a way that frames his face. He drops his hands and shrugs, “That was just regular lipstick that would leave a mark.”

“Of course it was,” Hajime mutters, shaking his head and shifting his legs to stand. He ends up tripping, looking up in confusion when Oikawa shoves him back down on the bench.

“Iwa-chan, make up your mind,” Oikawa says, crossing his arms and pouting downward.

Hajime blinks, letting his bag fall back to the ground. He doesn’t even remember a question, let alone a decision.

“Don’t you have something to say?” Oikawa says, narrowing his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hajime says, running a hand through his hair and trying to figure out what Oikawa’s suddenly gotten worked up over. Thirty seconds ago they’d been talking about make up, for fucks sake.

“But, you – ” Oikawa stops, which is odd enough in itself, and then actually grimaces, his hands curling up into fists. “You brought me coffee today.”

“It’s not exactly the first time,” Hajime says, mouth falling into a confused frown.

Oikawa shakes his head, mouth pursing tightly before he starts to speak. “You haven’t done that since I joined the pro team.”

Hajime grimaces, ignoring a feeling in his chest that’s somehow both hollow and sharp. He hadn’t felt comfortable intruding on a practices that didn’t include him, especially with a bunch of elite players that Hajime had previously only ever seen in magazines. It hadn’t occurred to him that Oikawa might notice, which is a severe oversight on his part.

“And – and the staring, again, like when we were first years,” Oikawa continues, voice echoing oddly as he looks down to talk to the floor. “And you told that girl – I mean...“

Hajime stares, heart beating up against his throat. He’s starting to understand, though he can’t really believe it. “Are you confessing to me?”

“No! I’m the one that gets confessed to,” Oikawa insists, his voice an arrogant lilt that badly buries the tremor underneath. “ _You’re_ supposed to be confessing right now!”

“I’m not –“ Hajime starts, trailing off for a moment and then making the terrible mistake of trying to see Oikawa’s expression. He looks positively stricken, his whole face curling up in a way that almost makes him ugly. Hajime’s standing before he really knows it, reaching out and grabbing Oikawa’s shoulders and trying to force him to look up.

“Is it not true?” Oikawa says, eyes misty to the point they’re about to spill over, and mouth tightly pinched. “Did I make all that up?”

Hajime groans, hesitantly moving forward and holding Oikawa close enough that he can feel him leaving damp tracks on his neck, “Yes, you got me, okay? But I don’t... I just didn’t want to be part of your dumb fan-club. Especially not part of the ones always looking at you like some creep.”

Oikawa lifts his arms and wraps them around Hajime’s waist, fingers clutching at the fabric at his back. He mutters something mostly inaudible, sounding suspiciously like an insult to Hajime’s intelligence.

“You didn’t want this years ago; why now?” Hajime asks, rubbing both hands down Oikawa’s back and trying to sooth the tremors under his skin. He’s not really sure he wants the answer, despite the fact he’s now almost a different person, but he also wants to know what he changed that now needs to be kept the same.

“I did,” Oikawa says, leaning forward hard like he’s trying to hide himself in Hajime’s chest. “But you stopped looking.”

Hajime sighs, shifting his hand until it cradles the back of Oikawa’s head, and tries not to feel too guilty.  It’s not like Hajime could’ve known, really, but it still makes the pain in his chest spread upward. He can imagine all too well Oikawa staying up late and analyzing Hajime’s every move like he would an opponent, looking desperately for the cracks.

“I didn’t want to miss my chance this time,” Oikawa mutters, voice almost completely inaudible as he presses his face into Hajime’s shoulder. “I got really impatient.”

“You can’t just bully someone into confessing, especially not me,” Hajime says, leaning back and tipping Oikawa’s head up by the chin, forcing them to make eye contact, “And did you really want this to happen in a locker room?”

Oikawa’s eyes break from his to dart around the room before his shoulders fall, and he exhales weakly. “I guess not.”

“I know you love volleyball, but this is too much,” Hajime continues, determined to lighten the mood at least a little before they leave the locker room. He doesn’t want to go out there and end up with a bunch of pro volleyball players trying to beat him up for hurting the newbie setter’s feelings. If anything, _he’d_ like to keep that job.

“Shut up,” Oikawa mutters, though his mouth is curling upward. “I never really thought about _where_ it would be.”

“And look,” Hajime says, lifting his hand and wiping at a dark smear to the side of Oikawa’s eye with his thumb. “You just did that, too.”

Oikawa twitches slightly, his hands going lax at Hajime’s waist, and he glances quickly to the mirror bay before looking back to Hajime with a caught expression.

“Just go fix it,” Hajime says, sighing and leaning backward against the locker bay as Oikawa pulls away.

* * *

“Or Ushiwaka,” Hajime says, bumping Oikawa’s hip with his own. They managed to make it to the train with out suspicious looks from teammates, and Hajime’s so ready to go home that he can practically taste the cheap, left-over takeout.

Oikawa glances over and removes an earbud, raising his eyebrows, “Ushiwaka?”

“People that I don’t want to be like,” Hajime explains, shrugging slightly and looking away from Oikawa’s oddly heavy gaze. The swiftly passing wall of the tunnel is looking particularly nausea inducing today. “Who treat you like that.”

“No, no, he does not think of me that way,” Oikawa says, lips pinching in obvious disgust. “Gross, Iwa-chan.”

“You can not bloom under these conditions, Oikawa-san,” Hajime says, letting his face fall into a blank expression. “Your talent would grow with a more appropriate ace, Oikawa-san.”

“Shut up,” Oikawa says, grimacing and pulling away until he’s practically sitting on an old woman, though admittedly she doesn’t look too concerned. “I have to play him in two weeks, _stop_. You’re making me mad.”

“You look beautiful, Oikawa, like a spring blossom,” Hajime continues, lowering his voice as he attempts not to laugh. “I want – “

Oikawa finally reacts by shoving him hard, both hands in the middle of his chest. Hajime laughs despite himself, even as he apologizes to the salary man behind him, and receives little more than a dull stare before the man returns to his phone.

Hajime turns back and looks to Oikawa, who still hasn’t let go of his jacket, and allows himself to throw an arm around his back. He forces himself to relax when the gesture earns him a wriggly little snuggle at his side, and determinedly ignores the way that the old woman is now smirking down at her tablet.

“You’ve ruined Ushiwaka,” Oikawa whines into Hajime’s cheek. “You’re so mean.”

Hajime huffs under his breath. “I had no idea that you didn’t know.”

“He’s my rival!”

“He’s kuudere,” Hajime says, so preoccupied with Oikawa that he almost forgets to grab the middle bar with his free hand as the train halts at a stop.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, grabbing his jacket in a firmer grip to balance himself, and then forcing Hajime to look at him “Don’t say that, Ushiwaka’s not cute at all.”

“I saw him outside your dorm when you were second year,” Hajime says, lowering his voice and tipping in close to Oikawa’s ear as a group of high school kids shove in next to them.

“No,” Oikawa says, voice going low and pouty. “Stop.”

“He said Waseda was like sandy soil,” Hajime continues, watching with a smirk as Oikawa curls his nose up.

“You’re making this up,” Oikawa mutters, turning away with an angry huff. “I am ignoring you now.”

“We have two stops left,” Hajime says, reaching up and flicking a stray piece of Oikawa’s hair. “I bet you don’t last even that long.”

Oikawa’s lips pinch even further, but he doesn’t look over, instead bringing up his phone and opening his texts. Apparently, Bokuto is having some sort of hair tragedy, if judging by the despondent selfies. Hajime doesn’t even see anything different, really, but evidently one of his tips is uneven.

“I can’t believe you’re on a pro team with that guy,” Hajime mutters, curling his arm further over until Oikawa almost has to hunch over in reflex to the bicep pressed against his neck, and pokes at the picture and enlarge it. “Look at that asshole’s face. He looks fake.”

“Boku-chi is just very enthusiastic,” Oikawa mutters, reducing the picture once more before texting Bokuto about using something called Red-chan. “About everything.”

Hajime hums his agreement, letting his arm drop to a more comfortable rest along Oikawa’s shoulders. “That was the shortest silent treatment ever.”

Oikawa exhales sharply, an audible squawk of protestation escaping as he glances over with narrow, betrayed eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hajime says with a smirk, letting Oikawa go as the train rolls to a stop at their station and ignoring the way it makes his side feels cold. He steps out after a gentle nod toward the old woman to precede him, shouldering his bag more comfortably and winding his way through the rest of the commuters.

Oikawa catches up with him quickly, earbuds tapping against each other on his shoulder like bells, so Hajime is ready for the arms that circle around his back. He even slows down to help prevent a potential injury for the both of them, steadily keeping his gait as Oikawa tries to shove him forward. He makes his way toward the neighboring park, a familiar short-cut to their block, and stays quiet even though it’s clear that Oikawa wants to say something.

“Why are you being so rude, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa whines, finally breaking and wedging his cheek up hard against Hajime’s, making it obvious that his pout is less phony than usual. “You’re so mean.”

Hajime slows his walk even further until they’re standing still, and glances around the leaf-littered pathway for a moment before shrugging Oikawa off his shoulders. He turns around with a deep breath, and grabs Oikawa’s wrists as they fall, holding them tightly and looking right into Oikawa’s eyes.

Oikawa blinks back at him, head held back just slightly like he’s expecting some sort of reprimand. “Iwa- chan…?”

“Tooru, I like you as more than a friend,” Hajime says, speaking as slowly and clearly as he can without betraying the slight tremor in his throat. He shifts his grip until Oikawa’s fingers are laced with his, and smiles wryly, “I don’t have a letter or anything, but I’ll make milk bread for tomorrow even though you’re mid-season.”

Oikawa seems to have turned to stone under his hands, eyes wide and mouth slightly lax; his breath is shallow, neck a deep red, and all in all, it’s a reaction unlike any other that Hajime’s witnessed him have at receiving a confession. Objectively, that’s probably a good sign, but it so heavily resembles a panic attack that Hajime wishes he hadn’t been spontaneous.

“I – I um, I ac-accept,” Oikawa says, fingers twitching almost violently in Hajime’s before he presses abruptly forward, trapping their hands and pressing their lips together for a surprisingly quick, if forceful, moment.

Hajime can feel his own face glowing, and hopes desperately that no errant runner will accidentally come their way. The worry quickly fades as he refocuses on Oikawa, who seems to be hiccuping and trying to pull his hands away to cover his inflamed cheeks.

“Shit,” Hajime mutters, letting Oikawa’s hands go and stepping forward to let him shove his face up against his shoulder. He can feel Oikawa’s heart beating a staccato, and his own near matching it as he lets his trembling fingers trace over Oikawa’s shoulders and back.

It’s ten times worse than the locker room just by being explicit, and he wishes he could’ve just let it simmer for a few more days while he got ready. He’s almost twenty-three, but apparently this crawly, nervous feeling in the face of his own emotion isn’t something he’ll ever grow out.

Even so, Oikawa would’ve sat on this and beat himself up over it, which is something Hajime’s never quite been able to let slide. Even with the discomfort of his heart trying to escape his throat, his fingers shaking like leaves as he tries to get a grip on Oikawa, it’s probably better to suffer this sooner rather than later.

“Was it seriously that bad?” Hajime mutters, running a hand through Oikawa’s hair and burying his face in his opposite shoulder. He smells like the cheap orange body wash he’s been buying for practice since they were in high school, and it’s comforting enough that Hajime can practically feel his heart slow down.

Oikawa shakes his head, turning it until he’s breathing into the side of Hajime’s neck. “It was really good – the best one.”

“Better than that girl that got you a cake shaped like a volleyball?”

“A lot better,” Oikawa says, his hands starting to relax from their claw-like hold into Hajime’s sides. “But you can still make the cake, if you want.”

“No,” Hajime mutters, rolling his eyes and turning his head until he’s staring at Oikawa.

Hajime has to look up a little, and it’s irritating right up to the point that Oikawa tilts his chin forward to catch his lips. He’s only in shock for a moment before he slips a hand to hold the back of Oikawa’s neck, tilting his own head until it’s almost perfect, and opens his mouth just as Oikawa’s tongue makes an exploratory swipe outward.

Oikawa groans, and Hajime feels a nudge at the edge of his hem, fingers curling inward until there’s a cool hand up against the bare skin of his stomach. He thinks he should pull away, but instead ends up leaning further forward when a second hand curls along his hip.

He retaliates by shifting his fingers from Oikawa’s neck up to the shell of his ear and then dragging down hard with his thumb along the line of a tendon. Oikawa gasps, breaking away sharply, and Hajime just smirks at him, stroking one more time before pulling back completely.

“Cheating!” Oikawa snaps, face beet red and chest heaving as he breaths hard.

“It’s not my fault you kiss and tell,” Hajime teases, rolling his eyes and taking a step back before he can do something that happens to be illegal when in the middle of a public park. He licks his lips, feeling the swelling there, and tastes something completely odd and yet also familiar. He glances back up to Oikawa, catching the slight smudging around the edge of his previously perfect lips, and feels his face immediately burn back full force.

“Iwa – Hajime, what’s with that face?” Oikawa asks, stepping forward and tilting his head, which has the afternoon sunlight hitting his downturned face almost perfectly. His eyes are smudged again, too, but it’s so much that it looks more like it was on purpose than that he had a fit; it’s so much less distracting than the lipstick.

“Home,” Hajime mutters, picking up his dropped bag absentmindedly and forcing himself to start walking. “We are going home. Do not feel me up until we are indoors.”

“So mean,” Oikawa sighs, shoving up against him again, though he seems to have realized Hajime is serious.

The walk to their building is about ten minutes from the station, which means they’re already about halfway there, so Hajime only has to put up with Oikawa’s sighing for another five minutes. He’s about ready to gag him, and not in a fun way, when the sighing stops and breathy laughter starts up.

Hajime turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

“Tobio-chan,” Oikawa chokes out, covering his face and then doubling over right in the middle of the sidewalk. “He and – and – oh my _god_.”

“Kusokawa,” Hajime says lowly, the enchanting properties of messed lipstick slowly losing their effect the longer Oikawa keeps giggling.

“There are volleyball courts in that park,” Oikawa says, glancing up with an all-too-delighted grin.

Hajime frowns, raising an eyebrow. “I know. We chose this – oh no. No.”

“Chibi-chan sent me a snap-chat,” Oikawa says, crowding in close again and tipping his phone up. Displayed is a picture of Kageyama covering his face, with the caption: ‘ _It was like seeing his parents, he says!’_ “Isn’t that cute?”

“Makes me worry about the quality of his parents,” Hajime mutters, shoving Oikawa’s arm away with a grimace. He ignores the tapping on the phone behind him as he heads to their building, slipping in the front door and toward the stairs. “Hinata is gonna lose his job if he keeps ditching whenever Kageyama wants to play.”

“It’s owned by their coach,” Oikawa says absentmindedly, already back to digging his elbows in Hajime’s sides. “Karasuno’s coach, I mean.”

“Still,” Hajime mutters, feeling doubly irritated when it occurs to him that he’s not old enough to be having this conversation. Probably.

Hajime pauses only for a moment before he unlocks their apartment with a harsh turn of the key, listening to the tumblers clank and then shoving the door open. He throws his bag onto the floor at the back of the couch and then turns around, watching as Oikawa takes his time peeling off his jacket, folding it neatly, setting it down on the back of a chair.

“Tooru,” Hajime says, trying to keep the desperate tone out of his voice.

Oikawa blinks slowly, then inhales sharply, instantly perking up and smiling. “Oh!”

“Did you think I was going to take it back?” Hajime asks, trying not to frown even as he gestures at the still open door, raising his eyebrows, “Are you trying to give me an out?”

“You make it sound dumb, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, smirking as he speaks, but he’s avoiding eye contact as he closes the door.

Hajime sighs, debating little before he starts at the buttons of his jacket, then pulling at the hem of his shirt, throwing his clothing to the side until he's standing there in no more than his old jeans and socks. He spreads his arms, only dwelling momentarily on the fact that Oikawa’s eyes skating across his shoulders isn't all that new, and steps forward until the palms of Oikawa's hands are pressed against his abs to make him stop.

“What are you doing?” Oikawa asks, his speech a little breathy, but his eyes solidly pinned on Hajime’s face.

It’s a fair impression of composure, but Hajime knows better.

“You can feel me up now,” Hajime says, trying to exude a confidence he still doesn't quite feel. Oikawa's hands are hot against his stomach, distracting even as they stay resolutely still, and Hajime decides to intervene in Oikawa's undoubtedly feuding thoughts by grabbing a wrist and forcing a hand to shift upwards along his ribs.

Oikawa inhales sharply, pink dusting the top of his ears as his eyes dart downward to stare at his own hand.

“Seriously,” Hajime says, choking slightly when Oikawa's short nails scrape hesitantly along the surface of his abs. “I'm not taking it back, Tooru. No matter how much of a moron you are.”

Oikawa glances back up at him, eyes sharp even through his eyelashes.

“I've already suffered with you for this long, I may as well double it,” Hajime mutters, sighing in a mockery of suffering.

“Triple,” Oikawa pushes, a wide smile – a real one – pushing up the corner of his lips, “Quadruple.”

“I dunno, there might be someone really gunning for me when we’re sixty,” Hajime scoffs, drawing upon his wells of exasperation in attempt to ignore the away Oikawa's hands are getting bolder.

“Of course there will be,” Oikawa says, practically groping along Hajime’s chest, tracing the edge of his pectorals with a delighted little smirk at the way the muscle jumps. “But I'll stop them.”

“Dangerously possessive,” Hajime says, a quiet echo from earlier, scraping his teeth along his lower lip when Oikawa ghosts a fingernail across his nipple. He shifts forward further and brackets Oikawa, forearms pressed against the door on either side of him just above the shoulders. They're more than close enough to kiss, but Oikawa is still seemingly entranced by his ability to touch, and the attention is getting Hajime more than a little worked up.

He wonders if this is what it's like for Oikawa when he stares, appreciating the way the make-up frames his eyes and lips, but with the added benefit of physical touch.

“We should make your room a gym,” Oikawa mutters, fingers now digging into the muscle along Hajime’s sides.

Hajime raises a disbelieving eyebrow, “Are you seriously calling me out right now?”

“Mmm, nope,” Oikawa denies, looking up with a small, teasing grin. “I miss going with you, is all.”

Hajime narrows his eyes, a few memories surfacing, mostly of staring and redness he’d dismissed as Oikawa's own exhaustion. “I can't believe that's a thing you're into.”

Oikawa laughs, shrugging slightly but otherwise unashamed, “But you get all sweaty and out of breath, Iwa-chan, and then there's all that grunting when you lift too much – “

Hajime tips forward and kisses Oikawa, silencing that utter blasphemy before working out gets completely ruined for him. He shifts his own hand up under Oikawa’s shirt – his shirt, damn it – and only breaks contact away when he drags it over Oikawa's head ands drops it to the floor. He shifts closer, until Oikawa's fingers now clutching thoughtlessly at his back and their chests press tightly together.

Hajime uses his other hand to grab at Oikawa’s belt, pulling it loose and then slipping his hand underneath, enjoying the way it makes Oikawa moan into his mouth. He gropes at the soft skin along Oikawa’s hips, pressing a thumb at the seam of his groin and thigh. Oikawa gasps and jerks forward, his dick an obvious presence next to Hajime’s even through four layers of fabric.

Hajime leverages himself better against the door, shifting one leg forward until they both start getting sloppier with kisses, lips smacking loudly until it becomes almost frantic. Hajime groans when Oikawa forces him back with a whimper for about half a pace.

“Bed, couch,” Oikawa murmurs, fingers twitching at their place in the small of Hajime's back.

Hajime sighs like it’s a chore, shoving smoothly at the waist of Oikawa's jeans and enjoying the way it makes him practically squeak in surprise, the blush on his chest somehow getting worse as his pants fall to the floor. His dick isn't anything particularly new, but context is everything, and it's making Hajime impatient.

Hajime steps backward another pace and shucks off his own pants, kicking them off his feet and somewhere toward the kitchen, and reaches forward once more, sliding his hands down and around the smooth skin of Oikawa's thighs, then bodily picking him straight off the ground. Oikawa squawks in surprise, hands curling around Hajime's neck as he winds his legs around Hajime’s waist, veritably clinging as Hajime backs up toward the couch with an ease that's surprising even to him.

He attributes it to the other distractions already working overtime, like the feel of Oikawa's bare dick against his stomach, or the way the position has his own rubbing against Oikawa's ass with every step. He falls backward onto the couch over the side of the arm rest, which makes Oikawa wince and then relax in surprise in the space of five seconds.

Oikawa leans over Hajime with a breathy laugh, eyes bright and hands sliding up his sweaty shoulders, “Hajime, that was amazing; you are _amazing_.”

“Didn't know I could do that?” Hajime teases, shifting impatiently on the cushions until his hips line up with Oikawa's and make them both gasp at the pressure.

“No,” Oikawa mutters, shaking his head distractedly as he grinds downward, eyes falling shut for a long moment. “I didn't.”

Hajime glances down, looking at the precome on his stomach and then watching it continue to bead on the head of Oikawa's dick, bare millimeters of distance from his own. Every little rock from Oikawa has throbbing pressure build and then release, his dick shifting and aching in a tight, almost painful rub against the slide of Oikawa's balls and ass with each gyration.

Hajime lifts one hand and presses it against Oikawa's nipple, then uses the other to grab at his dick, making Oikawa moan deep down in his chest and stuttering his movement. He runs the pad of his thumb along the head of Oikawa's dick, smearing the precome and listening with one ear to the way he’s got unintelligible words falling from Oikawa's messy lips. Hajime takes a shallow breath and then shifts his hand further, and their own sweat isn't perfect but it's all he's got as he starts to jerk them both, the pressure building achingly further.

Hajime startles slightly when Oikawa's hand joins in, covering the spaces he can't and pulling in perfect tandem. Oikawa falls forward a moment later, his head burying itself in Hajime's shoulder as his breath gets shorter and louder, every other exhale a moan. Hajime turns his head up and catches his lips, trying to inhale the feeling, and somehow knows just when Oikawa is about to come, smile breaking across his face as Oikawa lets out short yell when his dick starts pumping come onto Hajime’s stomach. The feeling and the image that Hajime manages to catch from a quick look downward is obscene, and he starts groaning at his own orgasm a few seconds later, barely catching himself at the urge to sink his teeth into the juncture of Oikawa's neck and shoulder as its laid out before him.

The air cools too quickly, leaving goosebumps forming on skin as Hajime wraps an arm around the back of Oikawa's neck. He wonders how much Oikawa would complain if he just fell asleep without cleaning up – probably a lot. He barely gets a chance to find out, forcing his eyes open as Oikawa sighs and props himself up on Hajime's chest, his expression almost a pout.

Hajime raises an eyebrow, blinking curiously; he'd thought that was pretty good.

“You could've fucked me against a wall,” Oikawa says, bald faced and without a single ounce of shame, his voice almost as accusing as it is satisfyingly exhausted.

“I – “ Hajime stares, opening his mouth for a long moment in bemusement. “I don't even know what to say to that, Tooru. Later, I guess?”

“And I don't like how practiced you are at this already,” Oikawa whines, one of his hands shifting to the back of Hajime’s neck as he starts setting sloppy kisses into Hajime’s jaw. “They better not have been prettier than me.”

“You know how you look,” Hajime says, shaking his head with a low chuckle and incidentally giving Oikawa room to shift his lips from his jaw down to his neck, working there in an obvious attempt to inflict something more permanent than this morning’s lipstick. He’ll be pissed about it later, but, as things usually go with Oikawa, right now he just lets it happen.

**Author's Note:**

> I finished this around 12/19, which you may realize is around the same time a certain reboot debuted, so... My bad.


End file.
